Right about this time last year, Dave and I were sitting at a card table in the second story of his house on 12th Avenue making an attempt to whittle down our guest list. We crunched the numbers together on Excel, both per head, and how much each head would cost to be there (food, cake, favors, beer, tablecloths...). It was one of the more stressful days of our engagement, so we took a break to sit on the roof and watch a distant set of belated fireworks. While we were out there, my pragmatic Dave had an epiphany.
"So...by the time we add up the cost of everything involved in the wedding, how much will that cost in comparison to the stuff that we get?"
I scuffed the shingles with my sandal. "If you add up the bridal showers, bachelorette party and wedding presents together, we'll probably break even."
"How does that make any sense? Why not just use the money we have to get the stuff that we need? Why all the extra stress?"
I smiled and looked toward the miniature fireworks, unsurprised by the response. In one sense the guy has a point, honestly. But there's a deeply relational side to this extraordinarily elaborate tradition, something loving and healing and good.
After having a frustrating week, I went to a wedding on Friday. It was a beautiful wedding, with warm air and cloudy blue skies, the bride's veil caught in the breeze. One of my dearest friends was the maid of honor; she wore a royal blue dress and a pure grin. It was the kind of wedding that gives you hope, that you really can believe has a chance of making it.
The reception was held in a refinished barn. I could see kids playing croquet and frisbee outside as myself and other 20-somethings played jenga inside. The decorations were beautiful, the cake was delicious, and we danced the electric slide twice. Everything was perfect, from the maid of honor's toast to the dip at the end of the couple's first dance. And as glad as they were to have us there, we were equally as happy to be there.
I sat at a table at the edge of the room after the ties had all been loosened and the sleeves rolled up. As I talked with good people and watched them laugh together, I realized that a warm peacefulness had slowly replaced the strain of my frustration. I wish I could've told my husband a year ago: this, these few moments of peace and joy, this is why we don't do it the practical way. The wedding was never about the presents, it was always about the people. We need to celebrate, we need parties. To do nothing more than to hope and laugh together and give love to each other is such a healing exercise. And I had needed to be there, to have that opportunity to simply be joyful and be healed.
So - thank goodness for impractical weddings.
Comments